


spilled salt over the shoulder

by icarusandtheson



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Discussions of death, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Vague descriptions of magic, magic!alex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 19:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusandtheson/pseuds/icarusandtheson
Summary: George comes down with a high fever, and Alex panics.





	spilled salt over the shoulder

**Author's Note:**

> A little Magic!AU to start off October. For my beta Hobbes, as always.

Alex doesn’t know how to be the responsible one in this relationship. The little things aren’t so difficult -- making George strip out of his rain-soaked work clothes earlier this week after an unexpected autumn storm so he wouldn’t get sick was easy enough, and so was tugging him under the warm spray of the shower. But then the coughing started, and the cold sweat a few days later, and suddenly Alex was twelve again, reaching for his mother in his first lucid moment only to find her body cold and unresponsive. 

George is never sick, his immune system is a fucking militia in its own right. Anything that could get past that has to be bad, has to be  _ serious.  _ It’s Alex’s fault. He should have done more, even if he doesn’t know exactly what constitutes  _ more.  _ He’s working with the scraps of what once must have been volumes of knowledge, oral histories Rachel only passed down in part before her death. Charms for warmth, for good health, mouthed against George’s skin that same night when Alex pulled him on top of him, and mixed into his coffee the morning after. None of it was enough, and that’s on him, because there must be  _ something,  _ some magical equivalent of inoculation, and if Alex just fucking  _ knew  _ it, George wouldn’t be sick right now.   

They go to bed early the day it hits George hard, and it’s a testament to how awful George feels that he doesn’t offer up more than token resistance about Alex staying with him, contagious or not. 

George drops off immediately into the heavy but restless sleep of the sick, and Alex keeps one hand on George’s pulse. He drifts in and out of sleep, waking with a start every few moments, half-expecting George’s hand to be limp under his. Near midnight he’s pulled from a vague, horrible dream, the bitter taste of fear in his mouth. George’s skin is much, much too warm. 

Alex forces himself to stay still, to breathe. George is strong, and healthy, and even if either of those things weren’t true, they’re in New York  _ fucking _ City, not a tiny island. An ambulance would get here in minutes. An ambulance they could  _ afford.  _ Alex wraps his fingers tentatively against George’s wrist, hoping he can fix this with a little concentration but telling himself it’s not the  _ end  _ if he can’t.

It’s easy to feel something is wrong. Sickness, a blurry, bitter taste at the back of Alex’s tongue. Unfamiliar in this context, wrapped up tight around the warmth and strength he’s so used to drawing from George. But there’s something beyond that, looming like an old ghost, impossible to pin down. Alex only recognizes it after a lifetime of feeling it brush past him, after tasting it along with bile and salt water when he tried to shake his mother awake. 

Panic rears up, black and ugly as the specter in George’s blood. For a moment, Alex’s mind is blank, except for the clearest, most reckless option. To pull it from George, and let it eat him instead. It’s possible, with illnesses -- after a decade of reflecting he’s fairly sure it’s what Rachel did, seeing the end looming for both of them and using the last of her strength to tug the worst of the fever from his blood. He considers it,  _ more  _ than considers it -- he tugs, or rather his power does, and the sickness allows itself to be pulled. Alex’s chest tightens as his lungs strain, his throat growing sore and swollen and his skin flushing with sickly heat. George draws a clear breath, and that’s nearly enough to convince Alex to take it all. Nearly. 

But Alex isn’t sure what the rules are, if he could be cured the same way George could, antibiotics and bed rest, or if pulling the sickness gives it a firmer hold untouchable by medicine. George would be alone, then, and would blame himself for infecting Alex for the rest of his life. It’s safer this way -- just because the possibility of death is there doesn’t mean anything, only that George won’t be fighting this off entirely on his own. Reluctantly, Alex lets go, his airways clearing and skin cooling as George’s breaths grow labored again.  

Alex strokes George’s face, his furrowed brow, tries to focus on the transferring the coolness of his skin to George’s. The fever licks at Alex’s fingertips, warming the blood in his palm. It’s easily extinguished with a clench of his fist, and George’s expression relaxes slightly. It won’t be enough, Alex knows from experience. He may as well be emptying the ocean with a teaspoon, and while it’s raining, at that. 

He slips out of bed before his plan has even fully formed, lifting his book bag from its usual spot on the writing desk as he goes. He navigates his way to the kitchen easily enough -- this won’t be the first time he’s snuck out of George’s arms to brew or cast in the middle of the night, and it won’t be the last. Until he tells George, there’s no other option, unless he heads back to his old apartment. But that isn’t  _ home  _ anymore, and everything from the pots to the stove to the utensils he used would feel wrong, especially since he had a hard enough time with them even when he lived there.

He reaches the kitchen, slinging his bag over a chair and taking out his notebooks. Nondescript, black covers, lined pages. Not particularly impressive as far as spellbooks go, but he works with what he’s been given. Tying up his hair, he heads to the windows, unlatching each one to air the kitchen out. Superstition is easily explainable -- George is religious in his own way and has never once laughed or shown disapproval of Alex’s habits in that regard -- but explaining the particular smells Alex has concocted in this kitchen over the past few months would be difficult at best. Sometimes, it’s almost enough to make him want to tell George, end the secrecy once and for all. He will, he has to, but the lingering fear that George will run a mile and leave him alone is powerful enough to rob Alex of all his words.   

Alex moves around the kitchen, consulting his notes -- briefly -- and his memory -- often -- for what he needs. Some things he has no way of getting a hold of: island-native plants his mother used, drops of ocean water. But there are little potted herbs living on the counter that always serve him well, and sea salt in the cupboard. Nine parts of magic, Alex learned long ago, is making do. What things are often matters less than what you need and believe them to be. 

From there, he busies himself chopping, sorting, crushing, moving everything into a boiling pot. The mindfulness is the hardest part, always has been for him. His brain wants to jump in a thousand different directions, to look forward or scrutinize previous actions for error. To stay in the moment, to infuse each action with intent and meaning, is enough to make him want to shake out of his skin. 

The emotion behind the spell, at least, is easy to hold onto. Love and fear and stubborn refusal to let George go. His mother used to pray to center herself, but Alex hasn’t talked to a higher power since she died. He doesn’t have to look far in himself to find that spark, that connection to something divine. 

The shock of pure sensation the first time George kissed him, the warmth of George’s arms, his smile, the comforting weight of his body -- enough to drown out the almost painful vulnerability of stripping bare for someone in every sense of the word. 

The rush of power takes him off guard, setting his nerves alight. The kitchen lights flicker, and he grimaces as the table shakes. Alex reaches out to steady it and prays George is sleeping too deeply to hear. He flexes his left hand, wincing at the feeling of sparks under his skin. His mother’s power was always cool, rhythmic, an ocean swell. His has never been nearly so controlled, more hurricane than high tide, and he’s never been sure if it’s meant to be that way, or if he’s wrong, somehow.  

Wrong or not, he’s managed  _ something,  _ and now he has to wait. He rests his hands against the marble countertops, the stone cooling his trembling hands.  

In the stillness that follows, an ache opens up in his chest, seismic in force. He wants his friends. He wants to hear their voices, to field their questions about every little thing he’s doing, to know he isn’t alone and helpless in this. Casting is always so fucking  _ lonely  _ and moving in with George has only made that fact more apparent. A cutting wind blows through the kitchen window, and Alex shivers in his threadbare old T-shirt. 

Fuck, he wants his mother. 

He lets out a wet, shaky breath at that, and leans his head forward to rest it on the counter. “Please,” he mutters. “Please, let this work. I need this to work.”

His shaking subsides after a while, but the ache persists. He stays like that until he hears the bubble and hiss of boiling liquid. The air is thick and warm, now, and Alex wishes he could shut the windows and just let the familiar scent seep into him. If he keeps his eyes closed, he could be back in Nevis, could hear his mother humming and feel cool fingers stroking his fever-warm forehead as she waits for the pot to boil.  

Alex pulls himself out of the memories, knowing damn well it’s a dangerous fantasy to trap himself in, and looks down into the pot. It looks right, smells right. Alex tests the viscosity, frowning down at his reflection in the still surface. He drinks some of it, even though nothing he used was inherently poisonous to begin with, just to make sure. It’s not gag-inducing, if a little overwhelmingly herbal. Alex remembers it being at least a little bit sweet, maybe honey, but he was more concerned about getting the rest of it right, and it would be just his luck to somehow poison his boyfriend trying to make the potion more palatable. If it works, he can experiment with taste in the future. 

He ladles the brew into a mug. The rest will keep, and George won’t think twice about it if Alex tells him it’s tea. And if it works, George is damn well drinking the rest of it, vile taste or not. He leaves the kitchen the way it is, too eager to get back to George to worry about cleaning right now. Mug in hand, Alex makes his way back upstairs. 

He can smell sweat, sickness underneath that. Again, the urge to go the direct route and pull the illness out with his own hands. Alex stifles it. This will work. And if it doesn’t, medicine will. Alex pads over to George’s side of the bed, shaking him awake as gently as he can. 

“Alex? What’s wrong?” George mutters, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Are you alright?”

“I made you tea,” Alex says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “My mom used to make it for me when I got sick, I swear it works.”

George rubs at his face, wincing as his gaze falls on the mug in Alex’s hands. “Baby, thank you, but I don’t think my stomach is up to it --”

“Please,” Alex says, too desperate by half. “I won’t bother you anymore after this, I swear, just drink it.”

George takes in his worried expression and sighs. “Alright.” He sits up slowly, wincing even as Alex tries to steady him. He takes the mug and drinks from it, expression twisting slightly at the taste, but he doesn’t falter. He drains the mug, pressing it back into Alex’s waiting hands. “Thank you.”

“How do you feel?” Alex asks, setting the mug aside while George settles back down. 

“Must have cleared my sinuses. Breathing is a little easier.” He smiles tiredly. “I’m fine, Alex. Get some rest, I won’t disturb you.”

“You’re not disturbing me,” Alex snaps, frustration at his own failure getting the better of him.  _ Why didn’t it work? What’s the point of having this in me if I can’t even fix a mutant cold?  _ “We should take you to the hospital.” Antibiotics will knock this out of him, right? Modern medicine and all its miracles, who even  _ needs  _ magic anymore? 

“I don’t need a hospital,” George says calmly, reaching out to grab Alex’s wrist and tug him down. Skin on skin, and Alex feels… nothing. The usual steady thrum of life is there, stronger than it was an hour ago,  _ brighter, _ and that lurking specter is gone. The sickness remains, sour and unpleasant, but nothing George hasn’t easily overcome before. Relief so strong it tastes like panic surges in Alex’s chest, and he leans forward to check George’s temperature. Still high, but manageable.   

“I’m fine, I promise,” George says. “I just need to rest.” 

Alex nods, tongue-tied with the sudden absence of his fear, and lies down without protest. 

George reaches up a hand to brush Alex’s hair from his face, carding his fingers through and tugging Alex’s hair out of the ponytail. “You worry too much.”

Alex scoffs, reaching up to wrap his arms around George’s shoulders. “For the sake of our relationship, I won’t call you out on that bullshit hypocrisy.”

George huffs a soft laugh and nuzzles Alex’s temple before going silent. Alex keeps watch, dredging up his power every once in awhile when it tries to rest and conserve itself. About a half-hour later, George’s fever breaks, and Alex breathes easy for the first time that night, kissing his sweat-slicked forehead. 

Alex doesn’t sleep, even after George’s breaths even out, his power worming it’s way through his limbs and pulsing against his nerve endings. It’s not the first time he’s felt this anxiety, not even the first time he’s felt it in this bed, but he’s too tired for even a simple spell to try and drain the excess like he usually would. It’s all he can do to cling to George, breathe him in and know he’s safe. Rationally, Alex knows he’s holding on too tightly, but George doesn’t seem bothered, not even shifting in his sleep. Herbs on his breath, pungent and clean, none of the lingering bitterness of sickness left clinging to him. 

Alex strokes his back, his arms, his head, and if he can’t suffuse any more magic into George’s skin, he can at least comfort, which might just be the same thing.

The sun creeps across the sky, light filtering in through the curtains, and Alex thinks of the mess left in the kitchen. George will probably sleep for hours more, but Alex has spent too long hiding that part of himself to be comfortable having his tools strewn on countertops like unwashed dishes. 

George makes a sound in his sleep, brow furrowing as Alex pulls away, but he stays asleep. Alex’s chest aches at even the slightest distance after a night wrapped up in each other, but he eventually drags himself away to clean up. 

It takes longer than he expected to reinstate some order, and the kitchen is brightly lit by the time he’s packed everything away. He’s just tucking his notebooks away when he hears heavy footsteps on the stairs. 

“Alexander?”

Alex turns, trying to look as unsuspicious as possible, but any worry at being caught melts away at the sight of George on his feet, if a little tired. “Hey,” Alex says softly. “You should be resting.”

“I feel fine.” George leans against the wall and fixes Alex with a soft look. “You left. I was cold.”

Alex rolls his eyes, turning back to the sink to gain some control over the riot of emotions he’s feeling right now. “I leech your body heat nightly, you were warmer without me in bed.” He lets out a soft, surprised breath as George steps up behind him, winding an arm around his middle.

“I was lonely,” George amends, his voice a low, sleep-roughened rumble in Alex’s ear. “I thought we could both sleep in, for once.” 

“I had to write something down.” It’s not a lie, he had to write down as much as he could remember of what he actually  _ did  _ last night for future reference, but the easy sound of acceptance George makes somehow makes Alex feel worse than lying outright. 

“Should I let you get back to work?” George asks, loosening his grip slightly. 

“No,” Alex says quickly. He can practically _ feel _ George’s pleased smile, sunshine-warm in the mere inches between them. “I’m finished, I’m all yours.”

“Good.” George presses a kiss to the back of his neck, humming softly. 

Alex ducks his head, smiling down at the counter. The mug in front of him wobbles slightly, and he reaches out to steady it. “Sit down, I’ll make breakfast.”

George huffs a laugh, fond in its disbelief. “You’re going to cook?”

Alex rolls his eyes.  _ If only you knew what goes down in this kitchen, buddy.  _ “Toast. I can make toast.”

George makes a thoughtful sound, tightening the arm around Alex’s waist and bringing them closer together. Alex tightens his grip on the mug as it gives a worryingly strong shake, perfectly in time with the rush of warmth that flows through him. 

“Someone’s feeling better,” Alex murmurs, leaning his head back against George’s shoulder and angling for a kiss. “Not that I’m opposed, but you probably should eat something first.”

George presses a kiss to his forehead instead, chuckling at the affronted noise Alex lets out. “Toast would be wonderful.” He releases Alex, stepping back with what Alex likes to think is no small measure of reluctance. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” George says as Alex pouts at him. “I don’t want to get you sick.”

“You’re better!” Alex protests, even though he knows damn well he can’t say  _ how  _ he knows that. 

“I feel better, that doesn’t mean I can’t pass it on.” 

“I’ll take my chances.”

George fixes him with a knowing look. “You just got over the cold Gilbert gave you. I’ve never seen a worse immune system.”

Alex grimaces. It’s not as easy, making remedies for himself. Still more effective than cold medicine, if he can gather the effort, but something is always missing. He just thought he was shit at healing spells, but he has over six feet of proof to the contrary sitting at their kitchen table. 

They’re quiet for a few minutes while Alex slices bread and sets the table, sidestepping George’s attempts to help. They’ve been together long enough now that Alex isn’t shocked by the feeling of  _ home,  _ the steady thrumming warmth that suffuses the air and threads into his bones, somehow both soothing and tugging at his power. 

“Come here,” George murmurs after Alex sets down his plate. He pulls Alex into his lap with little effort, and Alex tucks his face against George’s neck to hide the pleased, embarrassed flush he knows is burning on his face.

“The toast will burn.”

“The toast will be fine,” George assures him, stroking a hand over Alex’s flank. “Are you alright?”

Alex frowns in confusion. “With this? Yeah.” He shifts his weight, smirking a little at the strained breath George lets out. “I thought we established how  _ alright  _ I am with you touching me.”

“Incorrigible,” George mutters fondly. “No, last night. You were worried.”

“You were sick.”

“I’ve been sick before, you never reacted like that.”

Alex is silent for a moment. George knows, vaguely, about Alex’s history. It’s possible he’s already guessed why Alex was so afraid, but he’s missing the critical piece of information that would explain Alex’s panic.  _ How do you describe what death feels like, tastes like, passing through your senses? _

“George, I…” Alex trails off, and for once, words don’t rush forward to replace those that died on his tongue. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready to,” George says gently. “I’m not going anywhere, that’s all I wanted to say.”

_ You’re twice my age. Your blood pressure is always too high because you take on too much and worry about everybody but yourself. You could get hit by a bus, or struck by lightning, or you could just stop breathing.  _

Instead of any of this, Alex says, “I know.” It isn’t a lie, either. George’s heartbeat is strong under Alex’s hand, and with the sickness flushed from his system, all Alex can taste and smell and hear is how alive this man,  _ his  _ man, is. “I’m just trying to make sure that stays true.”

“My boy,” George sighs, pulling him close. 

There’s a beat of silence where Alex expects George to ask about the remedy. Nothing Alex has given him by way of home remedies has ever worked that quickly, and he has to be wondering. But George says nothing, just runs his hand up and down Alex’s back, humming softly under his breath. 

Alex opens his mouth to say… something, to crack a joke or tell the truth or evade like he always does, but what comes out instead is something dangerously close to a sob. He  _ felt  _ it. He felt George’s death. Far-off and unlikely, maybe, but it was  _ there.  _ In another time, another place without antibiotics, without Alex, he could easily have died. 

George shushes him, stroking his hair. “It’s alright, son. You’re alright.” He meets Alex’s gaze, nothing but warmth and love and acceptance in his expression. Alex’s heart swells, nudging at the back of his throat.  _ Tell him, just tell him. _

The distinct sound of something shattering startles them both. Alex winces, turning to see what he already knows isn’t there. The mug is gone, in pieces at the bottom of the sink, if past experience is anything to go by. 

George sighs, long-suffering. “Alex, I’ve told you to put dishes  _ in  _ the sink, not at the edge. That’s the third broken dish this month.”

Alex smiles sheepishly, unwinding himself to go and clean up the mess. “What can I say, I got distracted.”

George laughs, the smile-lines around his eyes crinkling in that way that twists Alex’s stomach, and the moment for truth passes. Soon, though. George isn’t as stoic as he tries to be, and Alex needs to tell him everything before he shows Alex the contents of the little velvet-covered box tucked behind George’s ridiculously organized sock drawer. 

For now, though? Breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> *Alex's ability to sense the presence of death, distant or near, is a nod to his frequent refrain in the musical of "I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory". George was not remotely close to dying in this story, but the fact that he could have, barring any interference at all, was the source of Alex's panic. 
> 
> *In case anyone is interested, the title comes from the closing lines of the movie "Practical Magic", a longtime Halloween favorite of mine and the inspiration for the modern magical universe in this fic.


End file.
